Runt – Chapter 1

Runt

Copyright J. N. Thorpe 2009

Chapter 1

If you live in London, or even if you’ve ever just visited, you’ve probably noticed that it’s a big place. All those houses and shops and offices and parks, stretching out in every direction, and the streets all higgledy-piggledy – it’s an easy place to get lost in. Even having a map doesn’t help. Sometimes, though, when people want to get lost, a city like London is the best place to go.

On the north bank of the river Thames is a place called the Isle of Dogs. It used to be covered in docks and warehouses and short, narrow streets, but now most of it is houses and offices. In the middle of all of this is Mudchute Park, which is a strange sort of name for the place, because most of it is grass, and not mud. There’s even a small farm there, where pigs and sheep can graze, and look up at the skyscrapers far away, rising from the hustle and bustle of Canary Wharf. Tonight, though, the sheep and the pigs are all asleep in their pens, and the whole park is empty. Well, nearly empty. On the western edge of the park, where the train tracks run alongside it, there’s a row of trees. If anyone had been watching the tracks, they might have noticed dark shapes running across them, and into the trees. But no one was watching, and only the moonlight cast its gaze on the three hunched, gangly figures as they scurried into the shadows.

They were smaller than most people, but wiry, with long limbs. They had pointed ears and green skin. Two were dressed in an assortment of torn and patched-up clothes, held together with safety pins. One wore a baseball cap, and the other had a battered saucepan on his head. The leader wore a long, black leather coat that made him look a little like a bat scrabbling through the bushes. On his head he wore a top hat, decorated with feathers, coins and other odds and ends. They were goblins.

“Oi, Finks!” one of them hissed to the leader, “You sure you know where you’s goin’?”

“Course I am,” rasped Finks. “Wouldn’t be ‘ere else, would we?”

“What’s we after, anyhow?”

“You’ll see, slipp’ry,” was all that Finks would say.

They scampered under more trees and across a couple of footpaths, until they emerged into the corner of the park.

“I dunno about this, Finks. Stinks o’ Bigguns round ‘ere.”

“Dunnit, just? Scared, are ya, Dibbsey?” Finks teased. “Follow me.”

He loped off down a short path between more trees, the tails of his ragged, leather coat flapping in the moonlight. His companions looked at each other for a moment, and then bolted after him. They shoved their way through a sparse hedge, then found themselves amidst two long rows of allotments.

“Wossis?” said one of them as they looked around uncertainly.

“This, Klonk,” replied Finks, spreading his arms expansively, “is where Bigguns grows all sortsa greens. An’ there’s cabbages!” He grinned.

That was all the encouragement his companions needed. They followed him across the narrow plots of runner beans, marrows and prize winning marigolds to the spot where he’d found the cabbages before. It wasn’t long before they’d filled the sacks they’d brought with dozens of fresh cabbages.

“How’d you knows ‘bout this place then, eh, Finks?” asked Dibbsey as he tied up his sack and slung it over his shoulder.

Finks tapped the end of one of his long, pointy ears. “Gotta keep an ear to the ground, slipp’ry,” he said. Dibbsey nodded wisely.

“Oi!” shouted Klonk, “come, looksee! Wossis, then, eh?”

Dibbsey and Finks bounded over to where Klonk stood picking his great, bulbous nose while he stared at the ground. Before him was a little bundle of rags, and next to it was a hole in the ground. By the moonlight Finks could see clearly into the hole, and there was no mistaking the grey-green claw poking out of it. Finks got down on all fours to better examine the scene.

“Hmmm. Looks like ’e were diggin’ ‘is way up. Croaked afore ‘e made it.”

Finks pulled a ring from the finger of the cold, clammy hand. “See this shiny?” He held up the ring for the other two to see. It was made of silver, and had a tiny crest engraved into it.

“Crompin’ creepies!” Dibbsey exclaimed. “That’s a boggly great glitt’ry thing, that is! Fetch a few bones down the Tattters, that would!”

“We ain’t floggin’ this down the Tatters, slipp’ry,” said Finks. “Fetch us some right aggro, that would. Thass’ High Warlord Grundwig’s crest, that is. This ‘ere dead-un’s like to be one o’ ‘is wassy-gobbers.” Finks pocketed the ring.

“Wossit doin’ all croaked in the wormies, eh?” said Klonk.

“They’s blood on ‘is tunic, like,” Finks replied. “Someone’s stuck ‘im a few times. Ain’t enough ter kills ‘im, though.”

He frowned as he thought about this, then leant down into the hole to touch some of the dead goblin’s blood to his fingertips. He sniffed at the blood tentatively, then scowled.

“Poison,” he declared. “Poor feller got stabbed wiv a poison blade.”

“Who d’ya reckon did that, then?” asked Dibbsey.

“Dunno. But we best leggit.” Finks picked up his sack of cabbages.

Klonk bent down to pick up the bundle of rags at his feet, and as he did so it squeaked.

“Wossat?” he said, as he carefully opened the bundle. The other two goblins leaned closer. Inside was a chubby, little yellow face with bright blue eyes. A tiny hand reached up from within the rags to grab Klonk’s thumb.

“Issa babbly,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

“Bless me warts, so it is!” said Finks.

“Innit dinky?” Klonk said as he cooed at the bundle in his arms.

“It’s got yeller skin. Why’s it all yeller?” said Dibbsey.

Finks scratched his scraggly beard, picking out a bug, which he chewed on thoughtfully.

“Reckon it’s a runt,” he said, with a heavy sigh.

“Eh?” said Dibbsey. “Wassat, then?”

“A hob-gobber,” said Finks.

“Thought they was jus’ a made up story ter scare littl’uns,” said Dibbsey. “Never thought ter see a real one.”

“They’s rare,” Finks conceded, “but they’s real enough. ‘Alf gobber, ‘alf biggun. A runt. An’ a right load o’ trouble fer us, too.”

“Ooza runt?” said Klonk, pulling a face at the baby, then laughing as it giggled excitedly.

“The babbly, Klonk!” said Dibbsey, pointing at the bundle in the big goblin’s arms. “Issa filthy hobber, so leave it be.”

“Huh?” said Klonk, his great heavy brow drooping into a frown. “Nah! I ain’t gonna! S’nice babbly.”

“Klonk’s right,” said Finks. He saw the look on the little hobgoblin’s face as it smiled up at him. “We can’t leaves it ‘ere on its ownsome, like. Runt or not, issa a babbly. You can blags it, Klonk, but look out fer it, mind.”

Klonk beamed, cradling the baby gently in his big, hairy arms.

“Wot’s we gunna do wiv a babbly, eh?” said Dibbsey.

“Dunno,” Finks shrugged, “We’ll ‘afta noddle that one laters. Come on, let’s leggit.” And with that, he headed off back toward the train tracks.

Near the railway line was an old, abandoned warehouse, half fallen down, now only used by rats and pigeons. Part of the floor had caved in, revealing the massive water pipes that ran underneath. A little way along it, one of the pipes had a hole in it – not quite big enough for a man to squeeze through, but fine for goblins. And even though the darkness inside it was as black as Finks’ hat, he had no trouble seeing where he was going. Further along the pipe was another hole, this one in the bottom of it, which opened into a tunnel lined with old, worn bricks covered in slime and mold. It was built years ago by smugglers and now long-since abandoned. It was a long walk to the end, which was right up against the river bank. A doorway that once opened out over the river had long been bricked up, but this wasn’t the way they wanted to go. In the floor, covered by dirt and grime, was a wooden trapdoor, put in to access the tunnel below, which wasn’t built by smugglers. Finks lifted the trapdoor, and beckoned for Dibbsey and Klonk to climb down.

They were heading deeper now, right under the Thames, through rough stone tunnels made by goblin hands. Sometimes they would pass near tube tunnels, and hear the last trains of the night rumbling by, or through the crumbling remains of Victorian sewers. Other creatures slithered and crawled in the darkness of those sewers, and the three goblins crept quickly and quietly through them. They were travelling still deeper underground, until there was only the goblin tunnels, and empty black caves where men had never been. Goblins are used to this sort of thing, though, but Finks was still worried. The baby was not something he’d expected to find on his night’s excursion, and it was going to be trouble, he was sure of that. When they finally got back to their den, he was going to have to sit Klonk down and have a talk with him. They couldn’t keep it, not a runt – even if it was just a baby.

If there had been anyone out on the allotments that night, they would have been quite an odd person, because gardening at night is a strange thing to do. They might, however, have seen something that would have made them think twice about their behaviour. Where three rows of cabbages had once been the ground began to move. Not very much, and it would have been easy to miss, but where the hole was, and an unfortunate goblin’s hand was sticking out, the head of another goblin emerged. It wore a spiked helmet of gun-metal grey, and thick round goggles. It looked around furtively, before disappearing back into the ground, followed by the protruding hand.

“Wotcha see, Gutter?” asked another goblin, standing in the tunnel below.

“It ain’t there, Slymane,” Gutter said, wiping the dirt from his goggles.

“Wotcha mean it ain’t there? S’gotta be there.” Slymane shifted uneasily, shaking loose clods of dirt from his dark green hair. It was so long that it touched the floor.

“I mean it’s gone. Scarpered. Legged it.”

“Issa poxy babbly – how’s it gunna leggit anywheres? ‘Ave another look.”

“You look! I ain’t goin’ up there agin – s’all Bigguns’ patch up there.”

“Hodge?” Slymane looked over his shoulder.

“Yes, Mista Slymane, Sir?” The voice belonged to a huge goblin, as big as man, and just as broad. He wore a suit which barely fitted him, and a bowler hat perched on his shaved head.

“Take Gutter ‘ere an’ gissit a proper looksee up there.”

“Yes, Mista Slymane, Sir.”

Hodge lumbered past him, having to stoop in the smuggler’s tunnel, and grabbed Gutter by the scruff of his neck, hurling him out into the night air. Then he hauled his own bulk up through the hole. A minute or so later, Hodge dropped heavily back into the tunnel, followed by Gutter.

“Well?” said Slymane impatiently.

“Ain’t there, boss. But we’s found footprints.”

“Footprints?”

“Yes, Mista Slymane, Sir. There’s footprints of ovver gobbers – three of ‘em.”

Slymane rubbed his pointed chin as he considered this news.

“Right, in that case, we best bring the stiff wiv us. Better pay a visit to ol’ Wilt. Come on.”

Hodge groaned at the thought of visiting ‘ol’ Wilt’, but picked up the dead goblin and slung him over his shoulder all the same.

“What’s we gunna see ol’ Wilt for?” asked Gutter, but Slymane didn’t reply.

There were many tunnels leading into the vast cavern of Stÿgga’s Hollow – so many, in fact, that no one had ever managed to accurately map them all. There had been several brave and spirited expeditions mounted to do so, most of which were never seen or heard from again. A notable exception was that of eminent balloonist, engineer and alchemist, Spondleton Quipple. After four years of exploration in the realms of ‘Outer Darkness’ as they were known, Quipple finally returned. Of his various travels he said little (in fact he no longer said anything very much, but did occasionally twitch or shriek very loudly for no apparent reason). His map, which depicted every part of the city in meticulous detail, was rather more vague when it came to the Outer Darkness. All he had managed to ascertain, judging from the shakily scrawled additions and notations to it, was that there were an awful lot of tunnels and that mostly they were ‘dark’, ‘nasty’, ‘smelled faintly of trousers’, and that it was ‘best not to go down there’. Quipple’s expedition had begun at the very tunnel down which Finks, Dibbsey and Klonk were currently walking. It was was well known to the city’s more adventurous types, and by the city’s standards, it was practically a subterranean thoroughfare. There was even a militia guardhouse at the entrance to the city. Finks tipped his hat to Onkler, the guard who lounged idly smoking a pipe as they passed.

“Fruitful evenin’, then?” commented Onkler as he eyed Finks’ bulging sack of cabbages.

“Always is, Onkler, mate. Always is.” He pulled a cabbage out of the sack and tossed it to the guard, who caught it with an appreciative nod.

He and his crew were about to walk on when the bundle in Klonk’s arms farted loudly, then giggled. Klonk screwed up his nose at the smell.

“Phooar, thassa ripe one!” he said, waving his hand in front of his face.

Thinking quickly, Finks said, “Klonk, you best lay off them cabbages!”

He flashed a grin at Onkler, but the guard was having none of it.

“’Old up there,” said Onkler, getting up and grabbing his spear. “That a babbly yer gots there, lad?”

“No, no,” Finks interjected before Klonk opened his mouth again. “Issa – issa hodgepog! Yup, issa hodgepog.”

“A hodgepog, yer say?” asked Onkler. “Never seen one o’ them afore. Wossit look like?”

He craned his neck to see into the bundle Klonk held, but Finks stopped him. “Yer dun’t wanna see it – trust me, iss ‘orrible.”

“Yeah?” asked Onkler, intrigued.

“Yeah,” said Finks, “iss got big, nasty teeth, an’ ‘orns, an’ bad breath, an a – a…” he waved his arms around vaguely, floundering.

“An’ if yer looks at it, yer gets turned to stone!” Dibbsey put in theatrically.

Onkler eyed him doubtfully. “Ain’t that basilisks?”

“hodgepogs, too,” said Finks. Dibbsey nodded.

“Yeah?” asked Onkler. “Musta been tricky ter catch, then?”

“Cabbages,” said Finks, “they loves ‘em.”

“Well, then,” said Onkler, “s’pose that settles it.”

“Right,” said Dibbsey.

“Good,” agreed Finks.

“Can’t let yer into the city,” said Onkler, blocking Finks’ path with his spear.

“Eh?” said Finks, exasperated.

“Sounds like a dangerous animal, this hodgepog ‘ere,” Onkler nodded to the bundle. “Wouldn’t be doin’ me job if I let yer take it into the city.”

Finks rolled his eyes. “Alright. Supposin’ it was a babbly – an’ I ain’t sayin’ it is, mind – that gunna be a problem, like?”

“Well, now, that depends,” Onkler raised his staff to lean on it.

“On what?” asked Finks.

“It depends on how much I have to drink later,” Onkler replied. “Might cloud me memory a bit, so to speak.”

Finks reached into one of his coat pockets and pulled out a small, leather pouch. He opened it and dropped a couple of coins into the guard’s already outstretched palm.

“Right, then. Seeya soon, Finks,” said Onkler.

“Yeah,” grunted Finks.

He, Dibbsey and Klonk headed down the broad slope into the outlying suburbs, with Finks muttering all the way.

When he was sure that they were out of ear-shot, Onkler went into the guardhouse and picked up the speaking tube that hung from a hook on the wall. The was a small wooden box with a handle on it, which he cranked a few times before speaking into the tube.

“Allo? It’s Onkler. Got summat Grundwig might want ter know about…”

The city itself had many levels, all built to a seemingly random hotch-potch arrangement of buildings. Some were little more than shacks or hovels, cobbled together from scraps of wood, cloth or rusty metal. Others were made from wattle and daub or stones and clods of earth. There were even some brick buildings – in the more salubrious districts. The Royal district, of course, was carved from the rock itself, and it was said that the walls and floors of the palace were shot with sparkling veins of crystal.

Coming home was a pleasure that Finks never tired of, and it soon brightened his mood. Even though they were more than a mile below the surface, the goblin city was not dark. Far from it, in fact. The place was scintillating with light. There were myriad rows of lamps lining the twisting streets, and lights from the buildings shone like glowing constellations. Above them, a whole plethora of bioluminescent life filled the cavern with a vivid, undulating display of multicoloured brilliance. Finks smiled. Unlike most of the goblins in Stÿgga’s Hollow, he had spent the greater of his childhood hiding in London. It was only by good fortune that he had found his way to Stÿgga’s Hollow, but now, decades later, he regarded it as his home. And it was a relatively short walk through the quieter back streets to reach his den.

Finks had chosen a spot for his den that was away from all the noise and the crowded streets. It was a comfortable place – a roughly conical building of stone and packed down earth, now grown over with moss and all manner of fungus, and home to toads, lizards, beetles, snakes and even a few bats. At the top of the thirty foot structure was a parapet around the watch tower. He’d had Ridgit Spewl down in the Fumes build him a big, brass telescope, which was his pride and joy, with which he could keep track of the comings and goings as far as the Tatters. He sat beside it as he smoked his long, horn pipe and stared pensively out of the window.

The Fumes was the alchemists’ quarter, so named because of the thick clouds of smog that drifted around the district as a by-product of the many bizarre and arcane experiments carried out by its denizens. It was best to avoid walking through the clouds without a mask, or at least a scarf over your face; otherwise you might end up hopping or flying out, or not come out at all. There was also the danger of the alchemists themselves, most of whom had breathed in way too much of the smog. Finks had chosen the den as his base because it was upwind of the Fumes, looking down on the chaotic assortment of buildings and machinery that filled the district. He watched idly as a plume of pink smoke mushroomed out from one of the Fumes’ many chimneys, accompanied by a small explosion and a shout of, “Cromp it, catch that thing quick, fore it gets hungry!”

His crew were arguing over where they could get the best price for their cabbages – except Klonk, who was still cooing and fussing over the baby. Finks didn’t have the heart to say anything to him about that just yet. He hadn’t really decided what to do about it, anyway. Eventually, though, his crew would tire of their bickering – or Dibbsey would get his own way – and their attention would turn to the runt in Klonk’s arms. None of them actually had the nerve to tell Klonk to his face what they thought of his new friend, but it was obvious from the moment they laid eyes on the baby, and Dibbsey had mouthed the word ‘Runt’ that they weren’t happy about it. Sure enough, before he’d even finished his pipe, Dibbsey sidled over to him with his arms folded.

“Oi, boss,” whispered Dibbsey. He only ever called Finks ‘boss’ when he wanted to speak his piece. Inwardly, Finks groaned. Taking his time, he tapped his pipe out on the window sill.

“Yes, Dibbsey, woss on yer mind?”

“Boss – woss we gunna do about that?” asked Dibbsey, jerking his head at Klonk.

“We ain’t gunna do nuffin’, slipp’ry,” said Finks, taking a fresh clump of pipe weed from his pouch on the window sill, and rolling it between his fingers.

“Reckon I’ve noddled it out best I can, an’ truth is, all’s I can think to do is go see ol’ Magg Scroggit.”

“That such a boggly plan? Y’know what she’s like wiv a bit o’ rumourin’. Be all round the Pox fore ya know it.”

“True,” conceded Finks. “Course, if I tells ‘er Klonk’s taken a shine to the runt, she ain’t gunna go a-jabb’rin’ it round.”

“How’s ya noddle that one?” Dibbsey scratched his head.

“Well, she ain’t gunna be illin’ her own sproggly, is she, eh?”

“Ah,” said Dibbsey. Finks tapped his nose, and Dibbsey nodded wisely.

“So,” said Finks, “sorted out who’s to give us best fer them cabbages?”

“Glibberstook. Bugbog says Hærstwingle, but I says Hærstwingle’s a frog bogglin’ sniddle crudger, so I did.”

Finks raised his eyebrows in mock outrage, then grinned as he re-lit his pipe.

“Right, then. Sounds like ya noddled it. Take Bugbog and Four-sticks wiv yer. And don’t come back wiv less’n a splintrin’ o’ bones.”

“Gotcha.”

“Off ya go, then, eh?” Finks nodded to the trapdoor that led down into the den.

Dibbsey left, taking Bugbog and Four-sticks with him, and giving Klonk a wide berth on his way to the trapdoor. Finks listened to their clomping footsteps on the staircase, then when the sound finally died away, he breathed a heavy sigh. He was left in relative peace, besides Klonk’s quiet cooing to his tiny companion, the soft crackling of his pipe as he inhaled and the occasional explosion from the Fumes. He took his time smoking his pipe, reluctant as he was to pay a visit to the Pox. He suspected that Magg wasn’t going to be best pleased with the news he had for her.

The Tatters was always busy. As the main marketplace for Stÿgga’s Hollow, every available space was crammed with all manner of stalls, workshops, kiosks, bars, forges and shops. The intermingled smells emanating from all these, though not as dangerous as those of the Fumes, were still overpowering. They didn’t so much assault the nostrils as beat the living daylights out of them and steal their wallets. Dibbsey and the rest of the crew were used to the Tatters, though. They were well versed in the art of side-stepping around the more dangerous stalls and vendors. They avoided the various unpleasant and sometimes poisonous or corrosive substances spilt on the ground with practised agility. The air was filled with all manner of winged hazards, too. As well as the insects which formed a permanent, living cloud layer over the market, there were the birds, jumping spiders, flying lizards and bats which fed on the insects. They, in turn, were prey to larger creatures. Cockatrices and pygmy drakes swooped over the tented stalls and canopies, plucking meals from the air. Some of the more adventurous creatures dared to swipe food from the many stalls, sometimes ending up as delicacies for sale. The Tatters was a noisy, colourful and often dangerous place to live in – or die in, if you weren’t careful, or dangerous yourself.

Dibbsey ducked to avoid a swirling troupe of multicoloured fireflies, and sidestepped out of the path of a massive, heavy set goblin carrying a large, blood-stained sack over his shoulder. And in a couple of steps he was facing – as he knew he would – a gaudy sign declaring:

Glibberstook’s Exotic Comestibles – If It’s Dead, You Can Eat It.

Ignoring the array of variously skinned, boned, stuffed and cooked creatures on display, he peered around for the stall’s proprietor. He spotted him struggling to stuff some sticky goo into a roasted, steaming bull frog.

“Oi, Glibber!” he shouted to the small, chubby cook, who dropped his frog in surprise.

“Ah! Dibbsey, Dibbsey!” Glibberstook exclaimed. “So good to see you again!” He waddled out from behind his stall to greet the young goblins with a broad smile. “So, what have have you brought for me today, my friend?”

“Well, Glibber, take a looksee at these at these cabbages, They’s fresh picked, they is.”

Dibbsey opened the sack he carried to show of the cabbages. Glibberstook’s eyes immediately widened at the sight of them.

“Where in the Hollow did you get these, eh? Lovely, these are,” said Glibberstook, taking out one of the cabbages to squeeze and sniff.

Dibbsey tapped his ear. “Gotta keep an ear to the ground, slipp’ry.”

Glibberstook nodded wisely.

“Indeed. So,” said Glibberstook, clapping his hands together, “What’s ol’ Finks asking for this lot, then?”

Dibbsey rubbed his chin. “Splint’rin’ an’ two hands?”

“Hmmm…and how many cabbages does that get me?”

“Forty eight – thass the lot.”

Glibberstook sucked his teeth. “That’s three bones a piece. Pricey.”

“Might sound, pricey, Glibber, thass true. But there ain’t no one else ‘ere’s gunna be selling cabbages like these, an’ they weren’t easy to come by, I can tell ya. Still fresh, too, like I says.”

While Dibbsey and Glibberstook haggled over the price of the cabbages, elsewhere in the Tatters, an altogether different kind of bargain was being struck. Set away from the main market, in a honeycomb network of caves was Shriving Chasm, home to the priests of Blödwug, the goblin lord of the dead. The entrance to the caves was adorned with the skulls of beasts and monsters that few of the city’s inhabitants had ever seen. There were also many goblin skulls, and even some human ones, as well as other races. It was a place that few goblins ever visited, while they were still alive, and on the whole they preferred to keep it that way. Slymane, on the other hand, was not most goblins. The work that he and his colleagues undertook often involved doing unpleasant things – usually to others, and usually with something sharp and heavy. Even so, he still felt a little uneasy as they crept down the dark, damp passageway, lit only by clusters of strange fungal growths, whose glowing eyes followed them as they passed. He had no choice but to come here, though, given the circumstances.

“Crompin’ spog ‘ole, this place,” complained Gutter.

“Yeah, well we’s got no choice on comin’ ‘ere – cuzza your malarkey.” Slymane stopped, turning to face Gutter. “I says to yer to grabs the babbly and kill the wassy, not to stick ‘im a coupla times an’ lets ‘im leggit so’s ‘e can hide babbly wiv the Bigguns!”

“I weren’t ta know the wassy’s got a flinty – woz I, eh? Stinkin’ crudger shot me in the ear ‘ole…” Gutter pointed to the bullet hole through his right ear.

“Shut it! Right? S’your fault we’re ‘ere, so quit yer whinin’. We’s gotta finds that zoggin’ babbly, or we’s gunna be comin’ back ‘ere for good! Geddit?”

Gutter shrank back, nodding despondently. Satisfied, Slymane marched away down the passageway, not waiting for the other two to follow. Seemingly unperturbed, Hodge trudged on in silence, hefting the weight of the sack he carried to a more comfortable position. Gutter scurried after him, cursing sincerely as he went.

“Ah… Filchet Slymane.” The voice, though thin and reedy, echoed around the dimly lit chamber as Slymane entered. “And I see you’ve brought a couple of live specimens with you.”

Slymane made a perfunctory bow. “Oh great an’ wise… Verti-cil-ium, master o’ the necromantic art, ‘umbly we grovels afore ya.”

“Yes, yes!” snapped Verticilium, “What do you want? And don’t stand there dawdling like an imbecile. Come in!”

“Oi, Hodge,” whispered Gutter, “Woss an imbecile?” Hodge groaned.

As they stepped forward, the great and wise necromancer, Verticilium Wilt emerged from behind the screen that obscured the far end of the cave. At the same time, a large cauldron full of bubbling liquid, set into a pit in the centre of the cave belched out a gout of violet flame. The approaching goblins stepped back, startled. By its weird, flickering light they saw the necromancer. He was tiny – barely two feet tall, and so fat that in his bright red robes he looked somewhat like a tomato. Gutter and Hodge, who had never met the necromancer before, looked at each other and shrugged.

“Hmmm, judging by the size and shape of the contents of that sack your pet golem is carrying,” said Verticilium, “you’ve come to ask me to perform an abjuration, yes?”

“S’right,” said Slymane, trying to sound as bold as he could, “we wants an abjuration thingy done on this dead’un.”

“Indeed,” said Verticilium, waddling closer. With a wave of his hand, the fearsome tongues of fire from the cauldron were reduced to low, guttering flames, and the cave was returned to a fitful gloom. “Place the body here.” He pointed to a low altar made from a slab of rough stone, much stained and scored. Hodge did as he was instructed, then quickly stepped back out of the necromancer’s way.

“Wass ‘e gunna do?” whispered Gutter.

“Nuffin’ if you don’t shut it!” Slymane spat back at him.

The necromancer turned away from them, shuffling around to stand at the dead goblin’s head. He closed its lifeless eyes, then took two coins from his pocket, and placed them on its eyelids. He tied a ribbon tied three times around the head to secure the coins. Then he took a ladle that hung from the cauldron and dipped it in. He waved Slymane over to force open the corpse’s mouth while he poured the ladle’s bubbling contents into it. Standing back, he raised his arms, striking the most theatrical pose his rotund frame would allow.

“O, great lord, Blödwug,” he announced in a sing-song voice, “Ruler of the dead, keeper of the key of the Unseen Gates, I implore thee, grant us your blessing, bring us the spirit whose body lies before us!”

The other three goblins waited in hushed and slightly fearful anticipation. For a long time nothing happened. Then, slowly, the body on the altar began to move. It raised its head, sitting up with a crunching, creaking noise like stiff leather.

“What a most peculiar dream,” croaked the corpse. “Must steer clear of that fuggleberry wine. Wait a minute – why can’t I see?”

“Be still, spirit,” commanded the necromancer. “You have been bound to your mortal remains that you might give us the knowledge we seek.” Verticilium placed a hand on the dead goblin’s shoulder, and it relaxed a little.

“Well, of course I’ll do my best help – glad to, but… hang on. Spirit? Mortal remains? Oh dear. Am I…”

“Dead? Yes,” intoned Verticilium.

“Ah,” the spirit replied. It considered this prospect for a few moments. “Oh, well. Shame, really – I rather enjoyed being alive. Still, these things happen, I suppose. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Steadhold Hostvig Trudgestrudder at your service.” The steadhold held out a creaking hand for someone to shake, but no one did.

“Trudgestrudder, eh? Then you are one of Lord Grundwig’s guard?” Verticilium asked.

“Indeed. Doesn’t the livery give it away?”

“You are not wearing any,” replied Verticilium.

“Ah. Right. Oh, yes! Of course – I was on a secret mission. Oops!”

Slymane pointed urgently at the late Hostvig Trudgestrudder. “Make ‘im say what the mission was! Who’s ‘e give the babbly to?”

Verticilium leaned closer to the steadhold. “Answer!” he hissed.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I really can’t do that. I mean, it wouldn’t be a very secret mission if I went around telling just anyone that I was taking the baby out of the city to safety. Oops…”

“We knows that! Who’s ‘e give it to?” Slymane shouted, frantic.

“Well?” said Verticilium.

“Ah.” The steadhold scratched his head. “I don’t know. Erm, I mean, I’m not telling you!”

Verticilium held out his hand, slowly bringing his thumb and forefinger together, as if he was squeezing something forcefully. “You will answer the question, spirit!” The steadhold’s body writhed and twisted and he yelped in sudden pain. The necromancer waved his hand, and Trudgestrudder relaxed.

“Do your worst, sorcerer, you’ll not break me!” the steadhold cried.

“Oh, but I will,” Verticilium squeezed again, and Trudestrudder jerked and thrashed, snarling through his gritted teeth. Slymane winced at the sight of it, and Gutter hid behind Hodge.

“Is that the best you can do?” gasped Trudgestrudder, shaking.

“Believe me, spirit, I have barely started.” Verticilum squeezed again, and the steadhold screamed.

Even the necromancer was impressed at how long Trudgestrudder held out, but eventually the steadhold’s spirit could take no more, and he told Slymane what he wanted to know, amidst sobs of mortal agony.

“Snaggletooth! I was to give it to Snaggletooth’s lot.”

“Woss they want wiv it?” Slymane demanded.

“I don’t know. I don’t, please, I swear, I don’t. I was just told where to meet them. That’s all…that’s all…” With a long, rasping gurgle, the steadhold’s body fell still again.

“Woss ‘appened? Is ‘e – like, proper dead?”

“Indeed. Permanently, this time.” Verticilium sighed heavily, weary from his exertions. “And now I must rest. Go – and you may leave the body with me as payment.”

Slymane didn’t ask what Verticilium wanted with the body, but did as he was told and left, followed by Hodge. Gutter had already fled.

By comparison to most of Stÿgga’s Hollow, the Pox was quiet. Its winding streets were too narrow for much traffic, and what open space that there was tended to be peaceful gardens, not much favoured by the average citizen. The witches were different, though. They liked to have peace and quiet, and open spaces to grow their herbs and practice their rites. There were a few shops amongst the cottages and tall, narrow residences, mostly selling herbs, tinctures and remedies not available at the Tatters. Magg Scroggit’s cottage overlooked a little park lined with gibber trees that wobbled and shook dark, glossy leaves every so often as Finks watched them. The cottage was small, cluttered and cosy, and Finks could almost relax as he sat in the little kitchen area, sipping a cup of tea. Almost, but not quite. Magg’s gaze was inscrutable and yet penetrating. Finks always felt that she could see right into his soul, and read all those shameful thoughts he’d had about her dazzling, graceful presence.

“So ye sees me predicament,” he said, doing his best to admire the view and not the witch’s delicate features.

Magg nodded thoughtfully as she dipped a biscuit in her tea. When he forced himself to look at her, Finks still found it surprising to think that such a slender creature could have given birth to a hulking great lump like Klonk. She had a thin, angular frame – unlike Klonk, who was more barrel-shaped than anything – and bright red hair that curled around the arm of her chair. She was tall, too. That was something she did share with Klonk, who always had to stoop a little inside his mother’s house, with its low ceilings. At present, Klonk was sitting on the floor, still cheerfully playing with the baby, seemingly oblivious to anything else.

“Yup, bit of a pickle, I suppose.” Magg Scroggit turned in her chair to watch Klonk tickling the baby and giggling along with it. “Still, he’s old enough to be a father, just about.”

“True, true,” conceded Finks, “but that ain’t the point, now, is it?”

“Ain’t it? My boy’s just as good as anyone else is. He might not be smart, but look at ‘im. That babbly ain’t gonna want for nuthin’ wiv Klonk about.”

“Apart from a mam,” countered Finks.

“So you wants me to take on the babbly, is that it?”

“That’s about it, Magg. I knows it’s askin’ a lot, but -”

“Do you, now, Finks? Really? You got any idea what raisin’ up a babbly is like?”

Finks shrugged. “Well, no, not as such.”

“S’wot I thought. Never mind you got no noddlin’ who its folks is. Could be they’re out spyin’ fer it now.”

“Prob’ly is, an’ if they’s some o’ Grundwig’s lot, then I’m best off stayin’ outta their way.”

“I don’t reckon they’s Grundwig’s – not wiv a runt fer a babbly. An’ thass wot’s so bogglin’ about it…”

“Aye, thass wot worries me. Someone out there wants this runt back pretty bad, an’ they’s willin’ to kill one o’ the High Warlord’s gobbers to get it.” Finks pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch from one of his many pockets.

“Not in ‘ere,’ said Magg, reaching for her own pipe from the dresser next to her. She nodded to the open back door that led out into the little garden, and Finks followed her out. When they were outside, she leaned close to him and whispered, “Y’know, there might be a reward fer this babbly – runt or not, if someone’s willin’ to kill fer it, they’s gotta be willin’ to pay fer it.”

“Maybe,” agreed Finks as he took a nub of the pungent tobacco from the pouch that Magg held out. “Though, in truth, I reckon’ you’ll find that folks what’ll kill fer stuff only pays fer it if they has to. An’, on the whole, they’s more like ter jus’ takes wot they wants an’ kills yer.”

“Then you best tread lightly,” said Magg, laughing.

Finks shot her a gloomy look as he lit his pipe.

“You ever heard the tale of the Tain’t?” asked Magg.

“No,” Finks admitted, “but I’ve ‘eard the name. Used ter get called it meself, like.”

Magg nodded as she filled her own pipe. “On account o’ your bein’ from the Bigguns’ city. Yer gots their stink on yer, so they says, an’ yer ain’t never gunna lose it. Not that I bear party to such talk, mind.”

“Most folks is alright wiv it,” said Finks. “I still gets the shifty eye once in a while, like. Jus’ gotta put up wiv it…”

“Used ter be the Tain’t meant summat different,” said Magg. “Us witches got a prophecy wot’s told us by our mams. It ‘as ter do wiv when Queen Stÿgga first founded the city. A thousand years ago she led the last o’ the Night Clans ‘ere, after the Bigguns’ bloody crusade ‘gainst ‘em. She’d reckoned the place ter be empty, so she was fixin’ ter make it a new ‘ome for all the refugees o’ the Bigguns’ slaughter. Only it weren’t empty. There was the Skavvers, an’ they weren’t keen on sharin’. So there was a big scrap, like, tween the Queen wiv ‘er wassals – woss they called?”

“Order o’ the Crimson Blade, innit?” offered Finks.

“Thass’ right,” said Magg. “So there’s a big scrap tween them an’ the skavvers’ lot. ‘Course, the Queen won, and the skavvers was driven back outta the Hollow. Then the Queen goes off wiv ‘er wassals an’ the Great Witch, Abbrast, so’s they can take a looksee at their new ‘ome.”

While Finks smoked and listened to Magg’s story, he became aware of a strangely musical quality to her voice, her words painting a vivid scene on his mind’s eye. He saw the Queen herself, proud and indomitable, clad in shimmering plate armour. She was escorted by her honour guard, whose midnight robes were trimmed with gold. At her side walked Abbrast, her face hidden beneath a veil of the finest samite. Queen Stÿgga surveyed the vastness of the Hollow.

She was exceptionally tall for a goblin – but then that was because she was not a goblin. Her tribe, though they looked human, were not, and had been feared and hunted by humans since men first learned to make swords. She had skin so pale that her veins showed through beneath, tracing fine networks of soft blue across her as if she was carved from marble. Her hair was as white as bleached bone, and she wore it spiked up like a crown around her thin, angular features. Her cheeks were tattooed with the swirling designs of goblin clan marks, signifying her as their queen. She wore many silver rings through her ears and a spiked stud through her bottom lip. When she opened her mouth to speak, she revealed her glistening fangs.

“We have achieved a hard-won victory today,” she proclaimed in a voice that was clear and commanding. Finks shuddered to hear it, even though – or perhaps especially because – it was only in his head. “And yet, I wonder if this was not merely the skirmish before the battle proper? Tell me, Abbrast, what do you see?”

The Great Witch turned her veiled head toward her queen, and in a whispering, tremulous voice replied, “Yes, there will be more bloodshed, Your Majesty. And again you will be victorious, though it will cost your people dearly.”

“That much I can already foresee,” Queen Stÿgga remarked. “If we are to settle here and build a city in which our people might hope to prosper and live free, will that city last?”

“Nothing lasts, Your Majesty,” said Abbrast, to which Queen Stÿgga nodded ruefully. “If you build a city here, it will prosper, yes. But there will come a time when our new enemy will rise up from the earth to destroy that city and all of your people with it,” added the Great Witch.

“Then there is no hope for us?”

“There is always hope, Your Majesty,” said Abbrast. “One day you will bear a child.”

Queen Stÿgga looked at her quizzically.

“That will be a strange day, indeed,” she said, bemused. “Tell me, Abbrast, will I also sprout wings and a tail?”

Abbrast continued, undeterred. “This child will possess a great power -”

“And so would its father have to,” Queen Stÿgga interrupted. “I should very much like to meet the man who so impresses me that I refrain from cutting off his head long enough for us to make a child.”

“The father will not be a man. He will be a goblin,” intoned the Great Witch.

“You are certain of this?” asked Queen Stÿgga, looking sidelong at Abbrast. “Have you been eating those mushrooms again?”

“The child will possess a great power,” repeated Abbrast testily. “Power enough to defeat the enemy king and rout his forces for good.”

“A boy or a girl?” said Queen Stÿgga.

“Your Majesty?”

“This child – will it be a boy or a girl?”

“It is perhaps a little early to say,” Abbrast replied vaguely.

“Can you not take a guess?” asked Queen Stÿgga. “It has to be one or the other.”

It was a while before the Great Witch spoke again.

“Yes,” she said finally.

“Yes, what?” snapped Queen Stÿgga.

“Yes,” replied Abbrast, “it will be one or the other.”

A deathly quiet descended, of the kind that might precede a deathly death. Without moving perceptibly, her guards sensibly moved a step away from Queen Stÿgga. To their great surprise, the silence was broken by the sound of Queen Stÿgga’s laughter, which to Finks’ ears was a less than comforting sound. He shook his head and came to his senses.

“Well that were a right boggly scene, an’ no mistake,” he said, eyeing the world doubtfully as it coalesced back around him. “Woss in that weed o’ yours?”

“T’were jus’ a little cantrip,” said Magg lightly. “Won’t do yer no ‘arm.”

“So thass’ the Queen issit?” Finks asked. Very few living goblins had ever actually seen Queen Stÿgga, and some even debated (behind very thick, securely bolted doors) whether she even existed at all. Finks was quite surprised to learn of the Queen’s true nature. “Yer means ter say we’s all be’olden ter some filthy, undedded Biggun? Well thass a right bag o’ bog farts! Wot yer show me that fer, any’ow?”

“The Queen’s sproggly,” said Magg, “iss’ the Tain’t. Tis where the name comes from.”

“Eh?

“She ain’t gobber, so if she ‘as a babbly wiv a gobber feller, iss’ gunna come out a hobber. The T’aint. Story goes that iss the babbly wot’ll rain ‘avoc an’ doom all that malarkey on our ‘eads, but Abbrast gots it wroung cos she were a bit…”

“Old?” hazarded Finks.

“Mad,” said Magg.

“Any’ow, woss’ all that gotta do wiv Klonk’s bab…” Realisation hit Finks like a bag of soiled nappies. “Oh Cromp! You ain’t sayin’ that this babbly is-”

Magg shook her head. “I ain’t saying’ nuthin, Finks. But you jus’ keep a sharp eye on my lad an’ that babbly, an’ keep both ears ter the ground.”

“Better ‘ad,” Finks sighed.

When Finks left Magg’s cottage, he was no wiser as to what to do with the baby, and Klonk was still refusing to give up the little giggling bundle. It was a distinctly worrying situation. Magg had – after much pleading on Finks’s part, which he suspected was just for Magg’s own amusement – agreed to let Klonk and the baby stay at her cottage. Just until they could arrange a more permanent solution. So that now meant that he was a man down, and Klonk, being so big and intimidating, was always handy to have around if things turned hectic. All in all, Finks was not happy with his lot, and had developed a powerful need to raise his spirits. As he trudged his way back uphill toward the Fumes, he took a right hand fork, heading into the Tatters. On his way, he pulled a tiny, brass whistle from one of his leather coat’s many pockets. He blew a short, shrill note on it, and waited, cogitating on his options. Magg was right; he had to tread very lightly indeed to get out of this one. Right now, all his plans – which mainly didn’t involve anything to do with babies – had been wrecked. Without Klonk around, the next job he had lined up was going to be a lot tougher, and a lot riskier. He could work around it, probably, but it was just one more thing to worry about. He could look for a replacement, but it would be hard to find someone he trusted like Klonk. The lad had been with him longer than anyone, and he may not be smart, but he was loyal and dependable. Until now, of course.

Presently, he heard a light twittering in the air above him, growing louder every second. He looked up too see Perriogg circling overhead. The brownie chirruped excitedly, then swooped down to hover a few feet in front of him.

“Greetings, little friend!” said Finks theatrically, bowing to the brownie, whose wings hummed as it bobbed excitedly in front of him. He pulled a cabbage stalk from one of his coat’s voluminous pockets. “Now then, I got this ‘ere to gives yer, if you’ll do me a favour, like.” He held out the cabbage stalk, and Perriogg shot forward to grab it. “So if yer would be so kind an’ such, please finds us me ol’ slipp’ry, Dibbsey, an’ gives ‘im this message. I’ll meets ‘im in the Broken Arms, an’ ‘e’s not to drink all our loot.”

Perriogg tweeted and nodded, then zipped off into the permanent night overhead, clutching the cabbage stalk between its tiny, clawed hands. While he watched it disappear into the darkness, Finks pondered over what he would say to Dibbsey and the rest of his crew. Of all of them, he knew that Dibbsey would take it hardest hearing that Klonk was temporarily out of action. He also needed to know that he could trust the lad – all of them, in fact – to keep the runt a secret. And though Dibbsey had been with his crew since he was old enough to pick a pocket, Finks needed to be certain that the lad could be depended upon.

He was interrupted in his musings by a shadow dropping across him. He lowered his gaze from the faintly glowing cavern roof of Stÿgga’s Hollow to see two guardsmen of the House of High Warlord Grundwig Nogstrobble looming over him, armed with flintlocks and tall spears.

“Finks?” asked one of them.

“Who?” Finks replied glancing quickly around him for a bolt-hole, but finding none.

“Don’t gimme that, matey. We knows who you are – an’ yer comin’ wiv us, right?”

End of Chapter 1